Kiss Her Goodbye

by Robert Gregory Browne

  Jessie had lost count of how many times she had drifted in and out of sleep. Her consciousness seemed to float on the same aimless current as her emotions. Awake. Asleep. Hysterical. Calm. Somewhere in between.

  She usually came awake seized by a sudden rush of panic, but for the moment she was okay. She was Jessie Glass-Half-Full. And she knew that sooner or later someone would find her and take her out of this horrible place. Someone would save her.

  The angel had told her so.

  But she also knew that Jessie Glass-Half-Empty was lurking just around the corner, waiting to pounce. Then the tears would come-as they always did-and all hope would be abandoned to the dark demons gripping her soul.

  How long had she been down here?

  Hours? Days?

  She couldn’t even begin to guess. She had no real point of reference to latch onto. Her memories were a blur of disjointed events, like keyframes in some whacked-out animation timeline.

  Focus, Jessie. Focus.

  But it was hard, really hard. And before she could rein herself in — she was undressing in the back of the Suburban, the man with the ponytail watching her in his rearview mirror, his gaze crawling over her as she stripped down to her bra and panties. She hesitated, but he waved the gun at her. Wanted it all off. She swallowed, tears falling, then reached back and unhooked her bra. The panties came next. And after she stepped out of them, she felt more naked-more exposed-than she’d ever felt before.

  Humiliated. That was the word.

  His gaze continued its slow crawl, watching her instead of the road, and she was sure he would crash, she wanted him to crash, and — then she was in back of a cab again, the driver looking at her as if he’d never seen a girl in a school uniform and — wait, what was that? Gunshots?

  — a hole the size of a dime opened up in the neck of a man in a Megadeth T-shirt, followed by the screams of the passengers. Or were they her screams? Someone grabbed her hair and pulled her toward the front of the bus and — now she was zipping up her backpack, Matt Weber glancing at her as he walked by, and before she could return the look, before she could smile — tape was wrapped around her hands and ankles, the man with the ponytail smiling at her as he lowered her into a narrow wooden box-only she wasn’t quite sure, was it Mr. Ponytail or Matt who was doing all that smiling?

  Or maybe it was the angel. The one who came to her as she slept.

  The angel had called her Jessie Glass-Half-Full.

  “It’s okay, Jessie. Everything’ll be okay.”

  Then she came awake to the mask cutting into her face and the cool rush of air streaming into her nostrils and the faint stench of fertilizer and the deadly silence, and she realized she had zoned out again and nothing had changed. She was still trapped in this godforsaken box, still buried beneath the earth, still thirsty, and, most of all, hungry.

  She screamed and cried and bucked and kicked and tried desperately to loosen the tape around her wrists — and then she remembered the rain.

  Her only link to the real world.

  Had she already said that?

  Focus, Jessie, focus. Gotta stay in focus…

  Jessie?

  Shhhh. Don’t bother her.

  She’s sleeping.

  28

  Donovan had never been a religious man. Despite his Irish roots, he had been raised a Methodist, apparently a compromise between his father’s dubious Catholicism and the strict Southern Baptist upbringing his mother had been forced to endure. He and his sister had attended church and Sunday school as children, but no one in the family had ever taken their religious activities seriously, and their attendance had tapered off over the years.

  Donovan’s tenuous belief in a higher power had been hammered out of him after his sister’s suicide and his days working Special Crimes. The evil he’d regularly witnessed had convinced him that no God could possibly be watching over us. The Founding Fathers had been right. Mankind had long ago been abandoned and left to fend for itself.

  Yet, as he sat behind the wheel of his Chrysler, clutching the Lisa Simpson key chain, watching rain splatter the windshield, he sent up a prayer.

  “If you are there,” he said quietly, “bring her home to me. Please bring her home.”

  Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes to make it official, but he heard no voice in return, was given no sign that his message had been received. Despite the effort, his heart didn’t fill with joy or hope or the promise of a new day.

  Which didn’t particularly surprise him.

  What kind of God would let an innocent fifteen-year-old be snatched away like this? What Benevolent Power would stand idly by as a good, honest man was ripped to shreds by a land mine? What Heavenly Father would let a jackass cop destroy the only chance they had of finding a little girl?

  Donovan felt nothing but fury. Toward himself, toward Gunderson, Fogerty, and toward a neglectful God who would never answer his prayer.

  He sat up and started the engine, resisting the urge to jam his foot against the gas pedal and plow through anything that got in his way. There was a tap on the passenger window and Sidney Waxman stood outside, gesturing for him to roll it down.

  Donovan did.

  Sidney leaned in, dripping rain. “CPD’s been all over those tunnels. We got bupkis.” He paused. “You all right?”

  Donovan just stared at him.

  “Okay, dumb question. What’s our next move?”

  “Pray forensics finds something in the Suburban,” Donovan said. “In the meantime, get CPD and the team topside, walking a grid, six-block radius, then expand from there if you have to.”

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Any patch of earth you can find that’s big enough to hold a coffin. And don’t stop digging until you’re sure you’ve come up empty.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order, Jack, especially in this rain. We’re gonna get a lot of flak.”

  Again, Donovan just stared.

  “Okay, okay.” Waxman raised his hands in surrender. “Anybody complains, I’ll break his balls.”

  “See that you do.”

  “And while I’m having all this fun, what’ll you be up to?”

  “Driving,” Donovan said, and popped the Chrysler in gear.

  So he drove, and drove fast, knowing that on these rain-slicked streets, every turn was an invitation to disaster. But driving was his therapy, always had been, even with cases that weren’t so personal. He’d reach a dead end in his mind and feel compelled to jump behind the wheel and drive for hours, endlessly circling the city as he worked the puzzle, looking for the break that eluded him.

  But this time he had no desire to sift through evidence. All he wanted was to make his mind a blank, to forget he even existed in this screwed-up world where Evil was the true God.

  He took a sharp right, splashing through a puddle, hearing the shouts of a cluster of angry streetwalkers as water sprayed over them. Traffic had slowed up ahead-late-night partyers on the way home-so he took another turn, a left this time, and found himself on a long, empty stretch of road; a stretch of road that would allow him to pick up speed.

  He punched the gas pedal, the Chrysler’s beefy engine roaring. A VW Bug turned off a side street and pulled in front of him, going way too slow, and he swerved around it, angrily honking his horn.

  He knew this was wrong, knew that he had to regain control of himself, but the fury he felt wouldn’t allow for compromise. All good sense had been abandoned to raw emotion.

  Despite his best efforts to make his mind a blank, thoughts of Gunderson and Jessie continued to tumble through his head.

  Taking out his cell phone, he speed-dialed Rachel’s direct line.

  After two rings, she answered.

  “It’s Jack.”

  “Oh, God, I heard. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if Sidney told you, but a couple of guys from Washington have been hanging around and-”

  “I know all about it. Right now I need your help.”

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sp; “Anything.”

  “Transfer the Gunderson files to my laptop and meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes.”

  “Why? What are you looking for?”

  “Something we missed. Gunderson was smart, but he wasn’t exactly tight-lipped. Somebody else knows about Jessie, and that somebody is in those files.”

  “I hope to God you’re right.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Donovan said, and hung up.

  He took another turn, onto a four-lane highway that stretched back toward the Chicago River. A sea of taillights confronted him, but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he weaved in and out of traffic, making a game of it.

  A woman with one face-lift too many throttled the horn of her BMW as he breezed past her and cut in, narrowly missing her front bumper. Another driver showed him the finger as Donovan switched lanes and cut him off, kicking back a torrent of rainwater.

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the image of that Polaroid out of his head-Jessie looking so helpless, so vulnerable. The sight of her lying there exposed to Gunderson’s camera made him sick to his stomach. What kind of animal would subject a child to that?

  What kind of devil?

  Snapping to attention, he realized he was coming up fast on a lumbering SUV. He braked and looked to the right, but the lane was jammed tight. No way to force himself in. Craning his neck, he looked to the left, past the SUV, checking the opposing lane for a break in the oncoming traffic. The river was directly ahead now, cars braking slightly as they approached the bridge that spanned it.

  But again Donovan didn’t slow down. Spotting his break, he whipped the wheel, cutting across the double yellow line, letting his fury blind him to the risk he was taking. Picking up speed, he pulled onto the bridge, rainwater spraying out from beneath his tires as he again tried to block the image of Jessie from his mind.

  Then, without warning, a large container truck changed lanes up ahead and barreled straight at him, headlights blazing. Donovan gripped the wheel, ready to cut back to his side of the road, but there was no room-he hadn’t yet cleared the SUV.

  The truck was coming up way too fast. Donovan hit the brakes and — there it was, a gap in his lane — but just as he turned the wheel, the bottom seemed to drop out of the Chrysler. It hit a puddle and hydroplaned, sending him into a rudderless swerve.

  The truck’s horn blasted mournfully as Donovan pumped his brakes and fought the wheel. He struggled to regain some traction, but the street below him seemed to have vanished.

  The Chrysler washed diagonally across the oncoming lanes. A chorus of horns blasted through the rain as Donovan spun toward a guardrail. Seeing what was coming, he threw his arms up as if to ward off evil spirits. With a deafening, metallic crash, the Chrysler smashed through the rail and plummeted.

  The next thing Donovan knew he was vertical, headed nose first toward the icy blackness of the Chicago River. The surface of the water rose toward him like a wall of cement, shattering the windshield as he hit.

  Donovan had just enough time to suck air into his lungs as what felt like subzero water flooded in, hammering him mercilessly. He fumbled for his seat belt, struggling to unhook it as the Chrysler sank like a brick in a well.

  A final tug and the latch clicked open. Freeing himself from the harness, he kicked back against the seat, then shot forward through the window frame and swam, his legs and arms pumping furiously toward the surface.

  But his lungs could only hold so much air and they were on fire.

  Hold on, Jack, hold on. You can make it.

  But could he? Not with this current tugging at him. Not with this freezing water slicing deep into his bones, numbing his arms and legs to the point of uselessness.

  Not with his lungs about to burst.

  He fought with every bit of strength he had, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  He’d once read that Harry Houdini had conditioned himself to hold his breath underwater for a full five minutes. But Donovan was no Houdini, and he’d be doing pretty good just to hold his breath for one minute, let alone five.

  Sixty-three seconds after the river crashed through his windshield, a final, searing jab of pain claimed Donovan’s lungs, feeling much like Willy Sanchez’s knife to the kidney…

  Then everything went black.

  Part Three

  DARKNESS

  29

  If you had asked him before this moment what he thought about life after death, he would’ve told you it doesn’t exist.

  Death, he would have said, is a dark vacuum where all memories cease and all senses are cut off as cleanly and abruptly as the power company switches off electricity to your home.

  He had never held the illusion that there was something waiting for him in the great beyond. Heaven and hell were fairy tales, a promise and a warning, created by superstitious men. Religion was nothing more than politics dressed up with symbols and sacraments-and too often used as justification to conquer and control.

  He lived in a world where evidence was king, and the promise of life after death had not lived up to scrutiny.

  Faith was a sucker’s bet. A fool’s game.

  And while he certainly wasn’t perfect, by any means, he’d never been a fool.

  Or had he?

  When he opened his eyes, he was standing on the bridge. The container truck was gone, as were the cars. And the people driving them. The sky was dark and restless, but the road was dry, no sign of the rain that had washed him away.

  The only sound was a distant, howling wind.

  In front of him stood a mangled mass of steel that had once been a guardrail, sporting a huge gap where the Chrysler had crashed through.

  But if the Chrysler was down there…

  … how did he get up here?

  Had someone pulled him out?

  Moving closer to the gap, he stared at the black river and watched as a body crested the surface of the water like a fishing bobber. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn gave off three short blasts. A distress signal.

  Jesus, he thought, that guy looks dead. I hope they get to him soon.

  Then, just as he began to realize, with growing anxiety, that it wasn’t just any body floating in the water-but was, in fact, him — a sudden rush of wind enveloped him and a black, turbulent wormhole opened up overhead.

  Something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him upward. In a few short seconds, both bridge and river were little more than pinpricks below as he was sucked into an endless, swirling corridor of light and sound.

  Fear blossomed in the pit of his stomach as a surreal barrage of images hurtled toward him at lightning speed, much too fast to decipher. He sensed that he was seeing his life play out before him, some sort of high-speed chronicle of where he’d been and who he’d known in his thirty-nine years. His parents, his sister, his marriage, Jessie Gunderson…

  Above him, at the far end of the corridor, a bright circle of light flickered.

  Was it a star of some kind?

  All he knew was that there was something compelling about it. And soothing. His fear and apprehension suddenly sifted away as an odd sense of warmth vibrated through his body — a warmth like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  There was no pain, no pleasure, just-and this seemed strange, considering the frenzied activity swirling around him-just calm.

  Then, the faint murmur of voices filled his head, calling his name, beckoning to him.

  Were they coming from the light?

  He couldn’t be sure.

  Before he had a chance to find out, invisible hands took hold of him again and yanked him toward a shadowy fold in the corridor wall.

  He found himself lying on a small patch of earth, staring into darkness.

  Pulling himself upright, he looked around, waiting for his eyes to adjust. After only a moment, he could make out the vague shapes of other human beings, their faces gradually becoming clear, full of shell-shocked confusion-a look he was certain reflected his own.
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  They were surrounded by rocky terrain. The distant mountains looked as sharp and impenetrable as razor wire, and the sky was not simply restless, but somehow threatening. Hungry.

  Yet the others seemed oblivious to it all.

  Oblivious to him.

  He watched as those around him began to rise and migrate, shuffling off toward a narrow pathway in the distance as if herded to the spot by a phantom wrangler.

  He didn’t hear the call, didn’t feel compelled to follow, but he stood up anyway.

  What, he wondered, was drawing them?

  Had the Roman Catholics gotten it right? Had the penitent come here to be purged of their sins before ascending to… wherever?

  The gathering crowd began to shift and change shape, forming a ragged line that funneled deeper into the darkness toward an unknown destination.

  He remembered, with sudden clarity, what Gunderson had said back at the train car, about the ancient Egyptians and the Fields of Yaru. Were these the newly dead, lining up to be tested? Did that narrow pathway lead to a world of boiling swamps and venomous serpents?

  The answers were beyond his grasp. He had no idea what any of it meant.

  For him, or for Jessie.

  His presence here seemed like some kind of sick, cosmic joke-a metaphysical monkey wrench-and he wondered if he was to be forever anchored to this strange place while his daughter slowly suffocated in a crude wooden coffin.

  She was alone somewhere, alone and frightened, calling for him.

  Help me, Daddy. Help me.

  He had to find her. He couldn’t let her die.

  Wouldn’t let her.

  Yet, what could he do? There were no bus stops here. No waiting trains to take him home.

  Searching the bleak landscape, he saw nothing to give him hope. It was, he imagined, much like the moon, or some far-flung asteroid. An unforgiving place that held no promise of escape.

  The crowd continued its march toward whatever that pathway offered. What did they see in the darkness there? Was it a way out?